


It Was The Way

by lotrspnfangirl



Series: Destiel Morning Porn Club Fics [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 18:31:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9136384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotrspnfangirl/pseuds/lotrspnfangirl
Summary: It doesn't happen overnight; it develops with time and through the little moments in life. It was the way that Deanwasthat meant the world to Castiel.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first DMPC submission!! Huge thank you to [Jhanamay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay/pseuds/JhanaMay) for beta’ing this for me and making it shine!!!

Dean Winchester, on the surface, was a simple man. 

Underneath, he was complex; a twisted array of emotions and baggage, hopes and fears and dreams combined with a powerful drive and patience that not many men possessed.

 _It_ happened slowly; his heart picked through every small moment, realization dawned and Castiel knew.

It was the way Dean laughed. Not the professional laugh, mouth drawn tight and at an awkward pitch for those who knew him, that he gave to random strangers in bars or on hunts. It was his true laugh, full bodied and _loud_. He would throw his head back, and his entire body would shake with the force of it. Tears would spring to the corners of his eyes, and Dean Winchester would be free, if only for a moment.

That laugh was rare to see and usually only happened in the safety of the bunker, but that made it all the more beautiful. It was contagious, that laugh, and would have both Castiel and Sam chuckling along with him, even if they didn't understand the source of amusement. 

It was the way he spoke. Dean’s voice had deepened over the years they’d known one another, but his tone was always the same. It was soft and kind when he spoke to a victim, child, sometimes even to Sam. With that voice, he could subdue fears and doubts, if only for a moment, and provide comfort with a few outwardly simple words.

It could also be fierce, powerful, and capable of holding so much anger that even if it wasn't directed at him, Castiel could feel the heat to his very core. Seeing Dean angry was such a stark contrast to the soft, kind man he was normally, but It showed strength, was terrifying, and was still so very much _Dean_.

His voice could also be shaky, could crack on every other word, showing the thin fissure of vulnerability that Dean Winchester would never willingly show. It was then, possibly, that Castiel started to know; Dean turned his head and cleared his throat, his voice shaking and body trembling with the words that he struggled to speak. At the very least, Castiel was painfully aware of how human the man before him was. 

It was the way he cared, the way Dean always put himself last, would give anyone the shirt off his back or a lift in his Baby. He showed it by silently slipping a beer into Sam’s hands at the end of the day and through the way he grudgingly made a salad with dinner. Castiel felt it every time he saw his trenchcoat hanging, clean and pressed, beside Dean’s leather jacket, even though he’d discarded it, bloodied and mud stained, on the bathroom floor the night before. Hell, Dean showed it every time he ignored the ache in his bones and popped an Advil or three as he climbed into the Impala on the way to yet another hunt. 

He cared about people, strived to help as many of them as he could, and often forgot that he, too, could be cared for. Castiel tried his best to show Dean that if he couldn’t care for himself, Castiel would do it for him. Castiel learned how to make burgers, knew which beers were _good enough_ , and found the best local diners for pie. 

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean would say, his voice soft and pleased, and it warmed Castiel to the very core. He knew from how those moments made him feel, why Dean did what he did.

It was the way Dean sang, mumbled and under his breath at first but confident by the first chorus. He sang in the Impala, to Journey and Kansas, Bon Jovi and Kiss. At some point, Dean would sing every band he had ever introduced Castiel to, and even ones Castiel had heard on his own from television or movies. 

Sometimes he sang in the kitchen, random theme songs from his favorite shows or to whatever was coming through on the small FM radio in the bunker kitchen. Whenever Sam or Castiel walked in he would cough, ask a question like, “If I have to make broccoli can I pour cheese sauce over it?” or “Can you make sure we have beer? You guys are ready for dinner, right?” and pretend the singing never happened.

He sang in the shower, too, and sometimes Cas would see Sam pause outside the door with a smile on his face. He knew Sam felt _it_ too, although in a different way.

It was in the way Dean took to domestic living, between cooking breakfast in his bathrobe, the chore charts he made up Sunday nights for the times they would be at the bunker, and his excitement over loading up the Impala with a week’s load of groceries. 

Sam, too, seemed to thrive in having a place to call home, though it was nothing compared to his brother. Dean would mow the small patch of grass beside the back of the garage door, would shovel and sweep the front of the road to “protect his baby,” and would strip his sheets and wash the towels every Tuesday night. 

He had an armchair that was his, a chair at the dining room table, a mug for his morning coffee and a koozie for his beer. Slowly, organization hangers appeared in the bathroom and the closets, for ties and shoes, razors and aftershave, to be kept with all three of their names written in Sharpie at the bottom. 

Dean Winchester had a home, and he was happy.

It was in the way he touched, his hands calloused and rough from the hours spent sharpening knives, cleaning guns, and digging up graves, but the pressure always soft. Castiel’s heart skipped beats and his breath caught in his throat at the brush of fingers as Dean passed a weapon, or a beer, or a bowl of chips on the couch. Then, came the press of his thigh, warm and heavy and comforting where it nudged against Castiel’s own. 

Every touch was deliberate, though they always came with an ulterior motive at first. They were helpful, guiding, supporting, assisting Castiel in a hunt or in being human, until one day they were _more_. Castiel didn’t know why it happened, didn’t know how it happened, but one day Dean’s hand was sliding over his, fingertips tracing every groove and dip of Castiel’s hand until his fingers slipped through and held on tight. Castiel squeezed his fingers around Dean’s and they drove the rest of the way home in comfortable silence. 

That was the first time of many, and Castiel often found his hand warmed by the twist of Dean’s fingers around his own. He often felt the comforting weight of Dean’s arm across his shoulders, pulling him in close, pressing against his side. Soon, the touches weren’t hidden and Castiel caught the small smile on Sam’s mouth every time he saw them together. It made Castiel hold on to Dean even tighter. 

It was the way Dean kissed, the way his lips were always soft and warm when they pressed against Castiel’s own. Castiel’s lips were hardly a comparison, they were always chapped, thin and dry; they couldn’t possibly feel to Dean how Dean’s lips felt to him. That never stopped him from letting Dean’s mouth devour, his lips and tongue etching their mark into Castiel’s skin. 

Castiel could never come up with a reason for not wanting Dean’s mouth moving against his own. Dean could come at him hard, press his back against the nearest flat surface and ravage him breathless or he could cup Castiel’s cheek, pulling him closer for a tender good-night whispered in the dark. He craved Dean’s taste, the heat that blossomed through both his stomach and chest, and was eager to swallow every sound that slipped from Dean’s throat when things got heated and boundaries were pushed. 

Kissing Dean was like coming home; Castiel felt cared for and wanted, and he understood why Dean found comfort in the simplistic treasures the bunker offered.

It was the way he relaxed; just like his laugh, it was rare. But there was nothing quite like seeing Dean Winchester, sprawled across Castiel's bed wearing an old Led Zeppelin t-shirt with his jeans in a pile on the floor and an old copy of _Cat's Cradle_ held tight in one hand while he stretched the other up behind his head. The first time Castiel found him this way, Dean raised an eyebrow and motioned the book towards the small basement window. "You have better lighting." And they left it at that.

Castiel would slip his coat and trousers off and toe out of his dress shoes before crawling up onto the bed. Dean would shift, too engrossed in his book to look up, but would melt back against Castiel's body and draw Castiel's arm over to rest his head against, instead of using his own. 

They breathed in tandem, the rest of the world outside of the small room forgotten, and Castiel relaxed, too.

It was the way Dean slept. It wasn't that he looked younger, but the lines of stress that were constant when he was awake seemed to melt away, leaving his face smooth and soft. He would gravitate to whatever was in his bed–a large body pillow, an extra blanket, and more recently, Castiel. 

He would slide his arm across Castiel's stomach; even half asleep he would seek out the feeling of flesh. Sometimes Castiel kept a white shirt on, knowing Dean would take the extra time trailing his fingers from his waist to his chest beneath the fabric. But always, Dean's hand would come to rest above Castiel's heart, lips would find Castiel's shoulder, and his leg would hook over Castiel's thigh. His fingers and toes would twitch as the day's tension slipped free and his muscles relaxed. 

In the morning, bright, sleepy verdant eyes would blink open, and a smile would stretch across his lips before he buried his head in the crook of Castiel's neck and hugged him closer. 

Castiel wasn't sure what was better–falling asleep or waking up in Dean's arms. 

It was the way he moved, muscles contracting beneath Castiel's palms as Dean arched his back. His arms were taut, muscles bulging as he held himself up, fingers clenched on the end of the mattress. 

"More." Dean sounded breathless. There was a different type of hitch in his throat, and Castiel reveled in it, adding another finger to the first two already buried inside Dean's body. 

Dean opened, willing and pliant beneath Castiel's touch. He pressed back against the intrusion, both Dean’s body and soul craving more, and Castiel was never one to deny Dean when it was something he could give. 

It was the noises Dean made, the small gasps and choked off moans muffled in the pillows. Castiel lived for the small grunts, the sound of skin hitting skin as he lost himself inside of Dean’s body. 

“Cas, Cas, Cas,” chanted like a mantra increased the speed of Castiel’s hips. He dug his fingers into the meat of Dean’s thighs, pulling him back harder as he pushed forward and was rewarded with Dean’s husky voice. “Fuck yeah, Cas.”

It was the way he shifted his arm, needing Castiel’s hand tight over his own before he could reach the end. Entire body shaking one minute, their hands clenched just the right side of painful, and the next Dean would cry out, body stiffening as he spilled his release on the sheets. 

Castiel’s own grip would tighten, Dean’s body pressing back to meet the last few thrusts, and he would come with Dean’s name on his lips. 

It was the way Dean collapsed, breathless against the sheets, the small roll so he could look at Castiel’s face, and his chest rising and falling rapidly right before he released a satisfied, happy chuckle.

It was all of the ways that Castiel knew. 

Dean’s body was warm and pliant molded against Castiel’s side, neither caring about their sweat slicked skin or the damp sheets beneath them. 

It was the way Dean loved, quiet and unspoken but unyielding and true, that had Castiel loving him back.


End file.
